His Angel
by hughville
Summary: After Cuddy breaks up with House, Cameron calls him because Wilson asks her to and because she is worried about House.


**A/N: I wrote this after the amazing S7 episode_, Bombshells._**

**Disclaimer: I don't own _House_, but I did "borrow" some dialogue from the episode.**

_Cuddy: Pain happens when you care. Y-you can't love someone without making yourself open to their problems, their fears. And you're not willing to do that._  
><em>House: I ca–I came to be with you.<em>  
><em>Cuddy: But you weren't with me, not really.<em>  
><em>House: I wanted to be.<em>  
><em>Cuddy: That's not enough.<em>  
><em>House: I can do better.<em>  
><em>Cuddy: I don't think you can. You'll choose yourself over everybody else over and over again, because that's just who you are. I'm sorry.<em>  
><em>House: No. No, no, no. Don't. Don't.<em>  
><em>Cuddy: I thought I could do this.<em>  
><em>House: Don't. Please don't.<em>  
><em>Cuddy: Good-bye, House.<em>

He replays the conversation repeatedly in his mind. What could he have done differently? He stares down at the bottle in his hand. The tile floor is cold beneath him. The tub is hard against his back. He runs his thumb along the ridged edge of the pill cap. He went to her. He sat at her bedside. He supported her as best he could. Yet, it wasn't enough. It was never enough for her. Every time he did something she didn't like, she punished him, usually by withholding sex. He applies pressure to the pill top and it flips off, clattering against the cold tile. He shakes out two pills and looks down the hallway. He waits. The apartment is silent. The door remains closed. No one comes to stop him so he opens his mouth and lifts his hand containing the pills. His palm is dry against his lips as the pills tumble into his mouth. His hand drops and he tilts his head back, swallowing hard to force the pills down his dry throat. Through the open doorway, he can see the bedroom. Memories of Cuddy taking his hand and leading him in there, wiping the dirt from him, kissing his scar, whispering that she loved him flood his mind. Rage bubbles up and boils over. Flinging the pill bottle against the wall, he pushes himself up. The pills scatter and some are ground beneath his shoes. He limps down the dimly lit hallway to the living room. He enters the kitchen and opens a cabinet. Bending down, he pulls out a bottle of Scotch. The bottle is smooth and cool in his hand, the amber liquid sloshing against the sides as he pulls the foil off and unscrews the cap. The heady aroma hits him and he raises the bottle to his lips. The alcohol slips down his throat and warms his stomach. He drinks more and staggers into the living room. He hasn't eaten and the combination of Vicodin and Macallan 18 hits him like a sledgehammer. He drinks half the bottle before passing out on the couch.

Awareness returns in stages. His mouth is so dry his lips stick to his teeth. The pain in his leg makes him nauseous and he reaches blindly for his pills. A vague memory of throwing the pills against the wall in the bathroom tickles the edges of his mind. Slowly, carefully, he opens his eyes. The soft light from the lamp on the end table stabs his eyes making him feel as if he is staring directly into the noonday sun. The pain in his leg increases urging him up. He staggers and falls to the floor. Slowly, inch by inch, he drags himself along the hard wood floor toward the bathroom. As he hauls himself over the metal strip at the bathroom door, he collapses on the cold tile. It feels good against his hot, dry skin. Reaching out, he feels around for pills. His fingertips brush against several and he sweeps them toward him. He scoops up the pills and grips the edge of his toilet with his other hand. Slowly, he pulls himself up and leans lopsidedly against the curved edge of the toilet. He shoves the pills into his mouth but he can't swallow and the pills stick to his tongue spreading bitterness through his mouth. Gagging, he ties to swallow again but the pills don't move. He leans his head on his arm and breathes. Finally, the pills dissolve and slowly the pain dissipates. Now his mouth is dry and filled with the bitter tang of the Vicodin. His stomach heaves and he pushes himself up. Lurching forward, he grabs at the sink and turns on the water. Dipping his head, he drinks greedily. The bitterness fades and his stomach settles. He sinks down and leans back against the tub. A ringtone he hasn't heard in over a year startles him. Digging in the pocket of his jeans, he pulls his cell phone out. He runs his thumb across the screen and puts the phone up to his ear.

"What?" he asks wearily, his voice hoarse.

"Wilson asked me to call."

"And do you always do what Wilson tells you to do?"

"He tried to call you. He said he went by your apartment but you didn't answer the door. Then he called me. I'm doing this for Wilson. Not you. What have you done?"

He laughs. "Of course you think I've done something. I'm always to blame as far as you're concerned, aren't I?"

"House, what have you done?"

"What have I done?" he asks looking up at the ceiling. "Well, I tried to be the boyfriend Cuddy always dreamed about. Failed. Stayed by her side while she had tests run, biopsies and surgery for a kidney tumor that was benign. Apparently failed at that, too. What have you been up to? Met and married any dying men lately?"

There is a sharp intake of breath on her end of the phone line. He grimaces as soon as the words leave his mouth.

"Sorry," he mutters. Clearing his throat, he continues. "You can call Wilson and tell him I'm hunky-dory."

"You don't sound hunky-dory. You sound hung over and stoned."

He laughs again and tears fill his eyes. "Never could put anything past you, could I? You always saw through my lies. Doctor Morality. Doctor Lie Detector."

He can hear her breathing. He rubs his hand across his forehead.

"Why did Cuddy break up with you?"

"You mean Wilson didn't divulge that little nugget of information?" he asks. Shifting, he rubs his leg. "I thought she ran from here to him to tattle about what a bad, bad boy I've been."

"Why did Cuddy break up with you?"

"Jeez," he sighs. "I took Vicodin. I was scared because I thought she was dying. I took one damn Vicodin to ease the pain."

"You relapsed." It isn't a question and he wipes his eyes. His fingertips are damp and he sighs.

"Most addicts do, you know."

"She's a bitch."

He gives a bark of loud laughter. "Well, why don't you tell me how you really feel?"

Silence greets his sarcastic question. "Say something," he implores.

"There's nothing wrong with you. There never was. If she couldn't accept you then you're better off alone. Trust me."

He rubs at the rough fabric of the bath mat to his side. "Are you better off alone?"

"Yes."

"Did Chase want you to be someone you weren't?"

"Yes."

"He's a manwhore now. You left and he went crazy with the ladies," he tells her.

She laughs. "He likes sex and he's good at it."

"Why did you really call me?"

"I told you-"

"You haven't spoken to anyone since you left," he interrupts. "I know. I asked."

"Wilson called me. He said I'm the only one who could get through to you."

"That doesn't explain why you called. Last time I saw you, you basically accused me of murder and of poisoning your husband's pure mind."

"You're an ass."

"Tell me something I don't know. Like why you really called."

He can hear her moving around. "Why did you call me?" he persists.

"I'm not one of your puzzles."

Another bark of laughter escapes him. "You are the ultimate puzzle. Now answer the damn question."

Her breathing increases and he knows she is getting angry. That pleases him because he knows she will answer him.

"I don't want you to OD," she says finally.

"Why? What difference would it make to you? You left me."

He waits. He can hear her crying.

"You were the only one who understood," he begins. "You never wanted me to change. You were the only one who accepted me as I am. That scared the hell out of me. You know me better than anyone."

"I don't want to live in a world without you in it."

He can hear the tears and the resignation in her voice.

"I always thought of you as an angel. Too perfect to touch. God, I must still be drunk," he laughs.

"I'm not an angel. I'm too damaged."

"That's what I liked about you. You're perfectly damaged."

She laughs and sniffs.

"Are you going to keep taking the Vicodin?"

He looks at the pills scattered on the floor. "Might as well. I don't have anything else to ease the pain."

"Just be careful."

"Are you going to call Wilson?"

"Yes."

"Don't tell him about the pills," he sighs. "He's going to nag me enough about the whole Cuddy debacle."

"Okay," she says. "House?"

"What?"

"Maybe you should get away for a while."

He bows his head. "Maybe I will."

"Are you going to be okay now?"

"Nope. But I'll survive."

"Good night, House."

"Good night, Cameron."


End file.
